GETTING SACKED BY CHELSEA: TREMENDOUS

I recently exercised my somewhat limited (Mikkel-esque) drawing abilities with the cartoon below.

In order to make sure I've captured the essence of the my intended subject, I've decided to run a competition, in the style of daytime TV phone-in quizzes. Here goes:

Who is the figure depicted below in the blue jacket?

     A: Ray Wilkins

     B: Ruby Wax

     C: Table tennis
     D: Lemon meringue 

Please leave your answers in the comments section below, with your name, bank details, PIN number, mother's maiden name, and the name of your first pet (the last two so I can work out your porn star name, obviously).

Other fairly banal posts related to Chelsea FC include: 

Why JT really lost the armband
'Get Rich Quick' ft. AVB

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JT EYEBALLS BALL

For some time now we in England have known that John Terry (hereafter, JT) is the personification of our island nation’s warrior spirit, the Defender of the Faith.

If there’s anybody who needed glassing in the Nail Gun Arms at last orders, JT’s yer man.

Rumour has it he’s involved with the Chelsea Headhunters, too. Born Organizer. Ringleader material.

JT closes down space. JT gets in the face of the opposition. This much we know.

However, surely squaring up to the actual ball ‘cos you think it’s looking at your missus funny – well, not his missus; the one he’s borrowed – surely that’s going a bit far. Not least because the ball could probably do him… 

* Related Post: Why JT really lost the armband

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'GET RICH QUICK' (ft. AVB)

Andre Villas-Boas at today's press conference announcing
his departure (with Marcus Trescothick looking on)

I have toyed with pyramid schemes, with inventing pharmacological breakthroughs in the fight against cancer, with the abduction and ransoming of elite footballers, with bank heists, with selling bodily organs (not mine; those of poor people in the Third World) – none of these have yet bootstrapped me from my precarious position over the gaping maw of poverty. However, as so often happens, from the point of maximum despair comes an ingenious new Get Rich Quick plan. Here it is:

• go to a semi-peripheral European league and flash forged pseudo-academic certificates at club owners;
• ad hoc your way to a trophy harvest, symbolically divesting yourself of the de rigueur Sports Science tracksuit to don some Armani clobber that yells AUTHORITY;
• remain aware that the lenses of the powerhouse clubs of Europe are always peering into your wee pond, so cultivate the sort of cosmopolitan image that says: ‘I can make it in the Big City without Mama’s food parcels’;
• at the first available opportunity, flutter your eyelashes at Roman (or, in certain cases, raise your eyebrow coquettishly), mouthing “I will win you Champions League…many glories” in a smouldering, gravelly, Russo-guese coo;
• come to London and either (a) own it, or (b) lock horns with big stags, fret the place up, and generally give the impression you’re heading for a break in Ciudad Ataque de Nervios;
• sit back in your Belgravia apartment, sipping vodka martinis;
• buy wheelbarrow;
• go to Switzerland, deposit money, cackle maniacally in your beautiful villa on the shores of Lac de Neuchâtel or at the healing spas of Baden;
• flick through brochures selling luxury modernist beachfront property in unspoilt yet accessible parts of the Tropics, inquiring with local planners about building runway for new Lear jet;
• cackle maniacally, ad infinitum.

There you go. Cannot fail.

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